For reasons that were never made clear, as Hunter S. Thompson used to say, I had my first Astra-Zeneca Covid injection yesterday. I don’t know why. Ok, the six thing on my date of birth might have been it, but I’ve heard of people over 70 not having had it yet, so I’m a tad confused. So far as I know, I don’t have any underlying health conditions, apart from the DVT business where I came very close to being very dead indeed, but that was fifteen years ago and all sorted out. So far as I know.
Last week I had an interview about communicating to minority communities about the need to get vaccinated. I thought it was going to be creating communications and that, which I’m quite good at. It was much more about going into care homes, which isn’t something I’d feel very comfortable with at all. I spent years in an old people’s home when I was a kid. It’s a long story. I still like hyacinths. I don’t like wing-back chairs. Especially in wipe-down Naugahyde. In orange. All I’m saying for now.
Anyway, I got a text out of the blue on Friday. I’m eligible for the jab. Go online and book it. So I did.
The first available slot was next day, which didn’t really suit, but the day after did so I went along to Woodbridge Community Hall at 08:45. It didn’t suit either really to be out of bed and doing stuff at that time on a Sunday, but I quite wanted not to get Covid so needs must.
You just go along, they ask for an ID number on the text they sent, they sanitise the chair, you sit down, they ask you if you’ve got Covid and if you’ve had the jab before and if you’re going to have an allergic reaction to anything you know about. Then they inject you.
At one time in my life not unrelated to DVT, for about a week I had to have injections about every fifteen minutes. I didn’t like injections before that. I wouldn’t say I liked them now, but after being jabbed every quarter hour you do become a bit habituated to it. When I got on a plane after that I had to inject myself. Or maybe die, so it was up to me, really. With that amount of injections you get to know who’s good at them and who isn’t. Nurses are. Doctors, by and large, aren’t. At the Community Hall they use nurses. Good.
I hardly felt it. Practice makes perfect. There were some after effects. I had a slightly sore arm about five minutes later, but nothing very troubling. About eight hours later I ached all over and had a slightly more sore arm, as I had when I woke up this morning, clear headed but otherwise feeling dehydrated (I wasn’t) and as if I was having a very mild dose of flu apart from the consolation dream/trance state I’ve always quite liked. The odd thing was that while I ached all over, as soon as I moved the ache stopped. Devoted Partner said that was how she felt all the time anyway.
So that’s it. I booked the second dose as soon as I could, which turns out to the towards the end of April. I haven’t found myself gravitating unaccountably towards 5G phone masts. I haven’t suddenly felt an irresistible compulsion to buy shares in Microsoft. I might short Pratt & Whitney but I’m pretty sure that’s more because they seem to have forgotten how to make airplane engines that work properly, rather than any mind-control stuff injected into me.
It’s really simple, just like everything to do with Covid. You can do what you can to stop it spreading. Or you can act like a selfish prick. It doesn’t really matter how you dress it up about access to information and communications strategies – everyone with a mobile phone has got Google, choice and free will. I chose to listen to the BMA rather than someone who does their research sitting on the loo. It really, seriously, is that simple.